


Being Nothing and Being Useful

by chase_the_fox007



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Blood Kink, Collars, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Kinda, Light Sadism, M/M, Masochism, Master/Slave, No Romance, No Sex, No Smut, One Shot, POV Third Person, Present Tense, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Shoe Kink, Sort Of, hopefully this one stays a one shot, very short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25060960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chase_the_fox007/pseuds/chase_the_fox007
Summary: “I want you to hurt me. I want you to make me bruise black, and make me cry so hard that I come, and forget everything about myself except that I belong to you.”
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 89





	Being Nothing and Being Useful

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbeta'd so I apologize for any mistakes with spelling or with the tense. I'm used to writing in past tense but I wanted to try something a lil different "^^
> 
> Initially there was gonna be actual smut in this, but then,,, idk I stopped writing and thought 'yeah that's a nice place to end it' so here u go.
> 
> (I may be procrastinating my Marauders fanfiction on here so sorry for that too!)

Will hasn't seen Hannibal in almost three months. Work has been stressful, overwhelming, and he's barely slept. Piles of paperwork litter his own home, his hands are constantly stained with ink, and he's grateful that the dogs give him motivation to at least keep the floors clear, even if the tables and counters are stacked with books and work and empty coffee cups and stacked plates from toast, or packages from takeout. It's just for exam season, which is always the worst, but every year Will somehow manages to forget just how bad it gets, how many papers he has to grade and how fucking _long_ they all are. And he's a perfectionist, so of course he can't just half-ass anything and skim through the papers, he has to read everything properly and check all the references or it wouldn't be _right_.

He doesn't know what Hannibal and himself are, exactly. He supposes they're dating? He certainly has no interest in anyone else, and neither does Hannibal to his knowledge. They don't really go on normal dates, though, like to the movies or to restaurants - not that they don't have fun together, in their own sort of way, but romance and sex aren't exactly a predominant part of their arrangement. They talked about it, discussed things extensively, at the beginning. Will still isn't exactly sure what Hannibal gets out of it, but he supposes that's Hannibal's business, not his. And what does Will get out of it? 

Escape from _this_ , for one thing, he thinks to himself.

It's not that Will dislikes his job, or his life. He loves the dogs, he loves his students, his co-workers are good people, he _likes_ what he's built for himself, even if it isn't perfect. But there is the constant paradox of being in control; when the control is lost, he spirals and panics. But it is the constancy of the control itself - the responsibility, expectations, to-do lists over a hundred tasks long, days crammed to bursting with never-ending errands with not even a 'thank you' in return, that makes Will feel like his brain has separated from him and is trying to crawl out of his skull. It is that soft, low buzzing in his ears, the aching of stress that would start at a low hum and grow over time if not seen to. 

And right now, Will's blood is roaring in his ears.

Just one more day.

Just one more day.

Will texts Hannibal when he is on his way over, the next day. They don't text often, Hannibal preferring to hear Will's voice, but when they do text it's usually very brief, an 'on my way' or a 'home safe'. There's a dull, constant throbbing at the back of Will's skull, and he glances at the stack of papers on the passenger seat beside him. He's used to the constant feeling of having forgotten to do something, despite not knowing what that thing is, and he reminds himself that no, he definitely submitted everything he needed to, he definitely finished all the paperwork he had, he definitely left food for the dogs, he definitely did everything he needed to do. He scowls to himself as the feeling persists, even despite his reassurances, and he clutches the steering wheel a little tighter.

Driving to Hannibal's place is something that Will does on autopilot - he couldn't give someone else directions if they asked, but his body knows which turns to take and which roads are quickest.

He may not have been here in months, his head may be buzzing and his nerves may be alive with thrumming electricity as he steps out of his car, but he knows the drill. He knows that Hannibal is waiting for him, standing in the hallway. He'll be immaculately dressed, as per usual. Will knows what is expected of him, and the anticipation almost makes him sick. The expectations of others matter, yes, but not like Hannibal's do.

It's like coming home after war. Will's head is pounding - Will's head is usually pounding - as he walks up the stone steps to the entrance. He glances around himself, self-conscious suddenly, before opening the front door.

There's no 'hello'. No greeting, no hug, no smile. Will doesn't want that, and Hannibal doesn't either. The man stands in the hall, as Will knew he would be, immaculately dressed of course, a tweed suit with a crimson tie, and black leather oxfords. His hands are in his pockets, and he looks Will up and down, that expectant gleam in his eyes. Will shuts the door behind himself and falls to his knees. The movement is fluid, unthinking. He doesn't have to be told.

They stay like that for a moment, as Hannibal watches him, calculating. Will keeps his eyes down, chest rising and falling quickly under his layers; it's warm in here, and his heart is still pounding. His hands shake slightly and he clenches them into fists, the knuckles turning white.

"Undress," comes Hannibal's voice. Will does, shrugging off his coat and pulling his sweater over his head, starting on the buttons of his shirt. He lets his clothes fall to the floor - he's sure Hannibal will have him tidy them later. He has to move into a sitting position to get his shoes and jeans off, but Hannibal says nothing. Despite the silence between them, the air is thick; Will can sense that hard gaze, can almost _feel_ it brushing over his skin and raising gooseflesh on his arms, bringing his blood rushing to the surface of his skin and making him flush scarlet.

Once he's fully unclothed, he resumes his position on his knees. He knows to keep his head down, and place his hands on his thighs. He's not hard, but some of the tension from his shoulders has disappeared already, and his breathing is a little slower. No doubt Hannibal notices. Hannibal always notices.

"Crawl to me."

Will does. The floor is pleasantly cool beneath him, and the hardness of it makes his knees hurt. He moves back into a kneeling position when he reaches the other man, looking up to see a flicker of a smile on Hannibal's face.

"I've missed you like this." His voice is low, hands still in his pockets. Will wants nothing more than to feel those hands in his hair, on his body, stroking, scratching, caressing, manipulating, hitting. Yes, definitely hitting. He wants those hands to pull him apart, limb from limb, and build him back together again. Will already knows he'll leave this place with more bruises than he arrived with – the longer they last, the better – and just the thought of it makes his breath quicken. Hannibal notices.

"I can tell you've missed it, too," he says. Will looks at him, but doesn't let their eyes meet; he knows not to make eye contact without permission, and for him eye contact has never been particularly comfortable anyway. But that doesn't mean he can't appreciate the rest of Hannibal, and _god_ does he want to appreciate the rest of Hannibal. He pulls in a breath, shaky, and closes his eyes. Hannibal appears to take pity on him.

"You're lucky, Will. If I were a less patient man, I wouldn't have waited for you. I'm sure you understand that boys like you aren't usually worth waiting for. You should be grateful I even let you come back."

Will swallows dryly, nodding his agreement before Hannibal has even finished. He knows _really_ , that Hannibal would have waited however long it took Will to be done with his work. Will _knows_ , but the sharpness of the other's words cut into him so deliciously anyway. He wants more.

"Y-yes, Master. You're... You're right, I'm s-"

"I don't want to hear it. If you wish to even _begin_ to show me the respect I'm owed-" he nudges Will's knee with those pristine, shiny black Oxfords. "-you can kiss my shoes."

Will leans down to obey, thinking only once he's on the floor that if he'd hesitated, perhaps Hannibal would have gripped him by the throat, or the hair, to force his head down. The thought sends a shiver through him, straight to his growing arousal, as he covers the musky leather shoes in kisses, pressing his cheek against the floor in order to reach every inch, running his tongue delicately over where the sole meets the leather and nuzzling at the other's ankles, panting softly. He doesn't know if Hannibal is watching - he can't decide if he hopes he is or not.

"Tell me, Will," comes Hannibal's voice above him. So far above him... "You present yourself to me like a feral creature so willingly. It's almost pathetic, how it comes so easily to you to debase yourself for me. What is it exactly that you've missed about this? What makes you come back, over and over?"

Will pauses in his reverence, face inches from the other's feet as he thinks, before Hannibal lifts one foot to half kick, half push Will's face into the ground, his cheek pressed against the cold floor, holding him there under the sole of his shoe. It's so simultaneously intimate and indifferent that it makes Will's head spin, and he almost doesn't hear Hannibal's icy tone.

"I don't recall allowing you to stop," he says. "I believe I only asked you a question, and I expect you to continue with your worship whilst you answer."

"I-I'm sorry!" Will gasps. The foot is removed from his head, and Will finds himself scrambling to continue, kissing where the laces cross and tie, laving his tongue along the tight, well-crafted stitches, and trying to remember what Hannibal had asked of him. "I... I missed..." What _has_ he missed? Apart from everything, of course. But when he knew he missed _everything_ , it became hard to differentiate the individual things. It doesn't help either that his mind is still buzzing with the stress and ache of everything outside of these walls.

"Where is it you belong, Will?"

Will knows the answer to this one - the simplicity of it comforts him, helps tug him into some sort of feeling of familiarity. Helps to quell the ache in his bones, the pounding in his head - only slightly, but it's enough.

"Beneath you, Master. Always beneath you." No matter how many times Hannibal has asked that question, Will will always give the same answer - same words, same intonation, like a mantra, or a prayer. Always beneath _Him_ , always beneath Hannibal.

Will doesn't want it any other way, ever.

"I missed that." Will's voice is breathy - he doesn't stop planting open-mouthed kisses to Hannibal's shoes, stopping only to get his words out. He knows Hannibal won't approve of him trying to do both at the same time and rendering himself unintelligible. "Missed being beneath you, lower than you... Lower than everyone..."

"What else?"

Will's knees and elbows ache, his back is arched awkwardly to get to Hannibal's shoes, and the pain is _something_ , at least. There is still the buzzing of discomfort at the edges of his mind, that feeling that he's forgetting something, that he's doing something wrong. He wishes it would quiet, and he focuses instead on the aching, on answering Hannibal. What else?

"I-I missed being useful," he says, pressing his forehead to the toe of one of the shoes and closing his eyes briefly. "I missed submitting to you, I... I missed..." He knows what he misses, but what do you call it when what you miss is losing yourself, sinking into some primal, inhuman corner your own mind and trusting someone else not to let you drown? When what you miss is the feeling of droplets of blood rising to the surface of blackened, indigo, watercolour bruises, rolling down pale, quivering thighs and knowing that when they hit the marble floor you'll be made to lap them up like a dog? When you miss making yourself small enough for someone to do whatever they wish to you, torture you, paint your skin with the colours of an African sunset as your voice echoes screams and keens off the walls, and you know that you'll never ask them to stop, though you know they would? There isn't a word for it, but Will knows how it feels to want it, to have it, anyway.

"Being nothing at all." Will's breath clouds the shine of the Oxfords.

"Up."

Will pushes himself back to a kneeling position. He fidgets with his hands, but Hannibal doesn't seem to notice. He fishes in his pockets for something, before pulling out a collar. It's very simple, black leather with a brass O ring hanging from the front of it. Very plain, and very simple, yet Will perks up at the sight of it, hands falling still. If they were anywhere else, such a thing would have no meaning to Will whatsoever. But between these walls, it means everything. It means transition from the raging, perilous ocean inside Will's mind, to a still, glassy lake. It means unthinking metamorphosis from a human, to... Whatever Hannibal requires him to be. A blank canvas.

There are several things - not solely the collar - that hold no meaning outside this place, but that become meaningful within. Will often considers his existence to be one of those things.

Hannibal crouches before Will, chucking his chin up gently so their eyes may meet. Hannibal's steady gaze meets Will's flickering one, and there's a semblance of a smile on the older man's face.

"I missed it, too," he says. One hand reaches out to stroke Will's cheek gently, and Will can't help but lean into the careful hand. "But, fear not," Hannibal murmurs. "You can be useful to me today." He runs a hand through Will's hair - his fingers snag on a couple of the tangles, but he pulls them without hesitation anyway, making Will inhale sharply. "Being nothing... And being useful. Is that what you want?"

Will nods, the movement is jerky and uneven. "Yes, Master," he whispers.

He closes his eyes as Hannibal slaps him a couple of times on his left cheek, only softly though, not enough to sting. Will wishes it would sting - perhaps if he's good, Hannibal will reward him with a welt or two later.

"There's a good boy."

Hannibal slips the collar around Will's neck - Will doesn't open his eyes, but he feels the warm, soft leather around his throat. A feeling he's far from unfamiliar with, but something he hasn't felt in so, so long.

And, he is nothing.


End file.
